


You, Disappearing

by mydearestlove



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke, Badass Lexa, Basically this is a The Weeknd song with our favorite girls, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Canon Lesbian Character, Clexa, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drifter, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Guarded Clarke, I kind of don't know where I'm going with this, Lesbian Sex, Let's see where this ends up, Light Angst, Musician Lexa, Musicians, Punk Lexa, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, hot lesbian sex, this is my first time writing smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydearestlove/pseuds/mydearestlove
Summary: It’s a struggle to drag yourself out of that bed, to wash the blood and the smoke and the lipstick off your body, your body that she touched, kissed, bit, scratched, but you have to. That’s what you do. You don’t stay, never. And suddenly you’re overpowered by deja vu when you walk out the door and look back at her sleeping form.It's the same as always - You, disappearing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a short first chapter! I can't decide if I'm gonna stick with the second person perspective for the whole story but I thought it would definitely be interesting as a hook. I'm excited for this since it's a lighter story compared to my other one. Tell me what you think and maybe what you'd like to see! This is most definitely in the early stages of story development and can be molded to what you guys like ;) much love!!

She’s got a body like sin, sending you straight down. 

She’s a wisp, a dream, straight out of a Neruda poem or an independent film. Her eyes beckon you, she’s like a car crash - you have to look. 

You have to look.  You have to look.

The way she moves is magnetic, drawing you in, grabbing you by the hair with two fistfuls and pulling you closer.

There’s a hole in her fishnets that widens when you pull them down with your teeth.

She never really had a thing for blondes until now, with your hair wound between her bony fingers.

The room is dark, orange light filtering in through the gap in the dusty curtains, but you can see her perfectly - laid out on white sheets, legs spread, eyes closed, mouth open like a work of art that you’re itching to draw but not more than you’re itching to touch her, taste her.

She’s glorious.

You can’t get enough.

When she rakes her fingers down your back she draws blood and it thrills you, you’re soaring, she’s filling every part of you, every sense is spilling over with her, her, her.

Her moans fill your ears, you taste her on your tongue, inhale the scent of smoke and sweat and lavender, her skin is soft, so soft against yours, glimmering in the dim, orange glow.

“More,” she begs, and you rip her panties completely off in your desperation to give her what she wants. Your head is spinning with desire, you’ve never felt this way before and you think that any second you’re going to wake with a jolt, gasping for air, heart pounding, and she’ll be gone. Never existed. There’s no way a girl like her can really exist.

She wraps her legs around your head, crosses her ankles together, purple-painted toes wiggling and curling in the air as you bury your face in her.

She’s screaming, she’s begging you not to stop. Like you ever would.

When you come up for air, reluctantly, she looks wild; she pounces on you.

You’re beneath her now and you don’t know when or how it happened but suddenly she’s got you, wrists pinned above your head, breasts exposed - it sends a shiver down your spine that lands right between your legs and grows and grows and grows until it’s a fire.

She kisses you, hard and wanton and desperate, and when she breaks for air you see her lipstick smeared from her lips to her chin. It looks like blood and it makes you crazy with the urge to bite her lip just enough to make it drip.

She goes down on you and your world explodes.

You wake up in the morning between tangled sheets, her hair wild and reaching for you across the pillow.

Closing your eyes, you try to remember how you got here; it comes to you in flashes of pure emotion - you can’t remember anything concrete aside from the feeling of being ripped apart by bliss and the image of her, naked and writhing beneath you - because of you.

It’s a struggle to drag yourself out of that bed, to wash the blood and the smoke and the lipstick off your body, your body that she touched, kissed, bit, scratched, but you have to. That’s what you do. You don’t stay, never.

And suddenly you’re overpowered by deja vu -

It’s You, disappearing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I promise I'll deliver. I wrote this chapter to "Find Our Way Home" by Message to Bears. You oughta check it out.
> 
>  
> 
> T/W: brief reference to self harm

 

**EVICTION NOTICE**

**This letter is to notify the tenant Clarke Griffin that your tenancy will be terminated on 10/30/2016. On that day you will be required to surrender possession of the property.**

**I have chosen to terminate your tenancy for failure to pay dues as well as violation of Section 3 of your rental agreement. This provision specifies the limitations on destruction of rental property.**

**Judicial proceedings may be instituted if you do not quit the premises on or before the date set above.**

The yellow piece of paper taunts you, flapping violently in the October morning air. It crackles loudly, seeming to echo through the silent, desolate streets as you snatch it angrily off the old wooden door and crumple it in your fist. October 30 is only 5 days away and you’ve got nothing, nowhere to go, no way to pay what you owe or afford another place. This was the cheapest place in town anyway, hardly even livable.

With a sound like a gunshot, you kick the door in with your booted foot and immediately regret it as the sound sends a shooting pain through your head. Dead air slithers out to meet you as you drag yourself inside, stepping over empty boxes and bottles and cigarette butts, kicking all of it out of the way as you make your way to your bedroom and collapse on the mattress in the middle of the floor.

Digging a cigarette out of the front pocket of your battered old military jacket, you lean your head back on a pile of dirty laundry and close your eyes. You light your cigarette without looking and inhale, long, deep, desperate. If your mother had been more supportive, if you’d been more careful, if Finn had been able to stick around, maybe you wouldn’t be here. Stuck in a shithole with no one to talk to, no one for comfort, nothing but a handful of paintbrushes and a half empty bottle of vodka and a future on the street.

You think of the girl you met last night. The way she captured all your attention as soon as she stepped onto that stage, the colored lights bouncing off her inked skin, sparkling in her big eyes. Her hair was dirty and long and full of braids that were matted so much they could almost be considered dreads, and you ripped your fingers through it anyway and loved it. You remember that her singing voice was much different from her speaking voice but they were both magical and you adored every syllable she uttered. It was dangerous how magnetic she was. You remember how she led you back to her hotel with her hand in yours, swaying on her feet, and her long nails were painted a purple so dark you mistook it for black. You remember how she peeked her eyes open just as you were walking out the door. She looked to the nightstand for a note, holding the dirty sheet over her breasts as you shut the door softly behind you and knew you’d left no note. No way of contact.

A form of control, someone once called it. Leaving before you’re left. Choosing loneliness because you know if you don’t, it’ll choose you. You like having a sense of agency over the bullshit that will inevitably happen to you. You’ve stopped expecting things. Life happens to you and you let it. That’s it.

There’s no meaning to life. There’s no secret. People do shit and sometimes it hurts you; avoid the people and you avoid the hurt. Simple.

Tears threaten to leak out of the corners of your eyes anyway. You hate crying. You never do it, but sometimes you do. Like now. One tear rolls down your cheek and lands in your pale hair, and another follows quickly after it. Laying there in the silence, staring up at the ceiling fan swirling round and round, everything feels inescapable. There is no safe space, no place or person anywhere in the world that’s good or pleasant or tolerable at all. Everything is toxic, covered in a layer of acid that drips and drips. It’s eating holes in you. Slowly.

You take too big of a breath and smoke burns your lungs, making you cough violently. Angry, you put it out on your arm. You scream. You still don’t feel better. You toss it onto the bed and when you jump to your feet, an empty bottle skitters across the floor and stops when it hits a stack of books. 

It makes a thrilling sound when, with a shriek, you hurl it against the wall and shatter it. You grab another one and it’s next, it sends splinters of glass all over your clothes that litter the floor. You throw a book. You throw a shoe, a high heel that Finn bought you years ago. The heel falls off. You throw a vase. The plastic rose falls out and flutters to the ground before it hits. You throw an Alanis Morrissette CD case. You throw an empty Diet Coke can. You throw a small lamp that changes colors. You throw things until your arm hurts and you can’t scream anymore because nothing comes out.

Panting, you sink to your knees on the ground and then roll onto your back, hands folded over your empty stomach.

It’s over now. The tears are gone. Thank God.

A car horn blares in from the street below, disturbing your peace in a way that makes the thought of staying in this room, in this place a second longer, unbearable. You stagger to your feet, scrub at your face with your hands, pull your hair into a thick ponytail, peering in your dingy handheld mirror. You grab a big backpack, one of the sturdier ones, and stuff it full of everything that’ll fit - clothes, a pair of shoes, cigarettes, your pipe, an Altoids tin full of weed, your phone charger, toothbrush, earbuds, some old candy bars, a diet coke, tampons, your meager stash of cash and your sketchbooks.

You think about calling your mother. You don’t.

On your way out of the house you reach your hand in the hole in the drywall in the hallway and pull down, ripping a big chunk off. You hurl it at the front window but it just bounces off as you kick a path to the front door and leave without turning around once.

The air is cool. It’s still early morning. You’ve no idea where to go, so you won’t go anywhere. You’ll just go. It will work out somehow, eventually.  


End file.
